My pulse trips. I turn slowly.
Straits is looking down at her roster, like she’s already bored before I even answer. “First generation,” she says flatly. “Correct?”
Heat pricks my face. “Yes,” I manage.
“It isn’t unheard of,” Straits continues. “Rare. But magick can… appear latent in a bloodline. Usually, it can be tied to some distant relative. The gene hiding dormant until activated.”
I merely nod, uncomfortable with the attention. I can feel the other squads watching. My own squad watching.
“Your parents are unaware of any magick lineage?” she asks, tone mild.
“No one that we know of.” I try to say it casually, but my face feels tight. Even though it’s the truth.
“Interesting.” She taps her pen once. “Nevertheless, do not confuse rarity with randomness.” She looks me over, eyes sharp. “Magick always has traces. Yours may have a story you don’t yet know about.” She turns away from me then, effectively dismissing me without another word.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I’m out in the corridor with the rest of them—air suddenly too cold, light too bright. The hallway outside the Logistics building is a bottleneck of bodies and voices.
A Blue Squad boy walks backward, talking loudly to his friend. “My dad says the Service keeps registries,” he says. “Like—families. Elemental lines. Who’s paired with who. Wanting to keep the most powerful family lines together.”
“Well, that’s… disgusting,” Rozsen mutters, loud enough for them to hear. Her jaw is tight.
The boy laughs like she’s joking.
She isn’t.
Rozsen catches up to me, her voice low. “So that’s what this is,” she mutters. “Not school. Not training. A racetrack.”
“A racetrack?” I echo.
She nods toward the line of students spilling out, clustering immediately into little packs—already sorting each other into categories the way Straits sorted us on the screen.
“We’re all just a bunch of glorified prized racehorses,” she says. “Whittaker is just a breeding ground for power and privilege.”
I follow her gaze to the groups gathered in the hall.
Old blood.
New blood.
Worth something.
Worth nothing.
Elliot bumps my shoulder as she joins us. “Congrats, Celeste. You’re a mystery. People love a mystery.”
I just shrug and turn to follow my squad down the hall—and stop.
Noa is leaning against the stone just outside one of the classroom doors, like he’s been there the whole time.
A few students notice him at the same time I do. The whispers shift. Reorient.
He’s in his gym uniform, sleeves shoved up his forearms, dense lines of muscle on display. His brown hair is still a little damp at the edges, like he came straight from training. My stomach tightens the way it always does when I see him. Gods, he looks good. Like a Greek statue someone brought to life. A singular, beautiful point in the chaotic hallway—impossible to miss.
And somehow, seeing him right now—outside a classroom where we just learned about magick and inheritance—makes my heart twist.
His eyes find mine immediately. I take one step toward him, then another.
Noa pushes off the wall, his gaze never leaving mine. “Hey,” he says quietly, the corner of his lips tipping up like a secret, giving me something steady to hold on to.
